


i shout out let us be us

by zenstrike



Series: you’re lucky that’s what i like [10]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Family, Implied Sexual Content, Lance (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Romance, i mean kind of if you squint??? i’ll tag it just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16062569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenstrike/pseuds/zenstrike
Summary: “I love you” wasn’t entirely the point.





	i shout out let us be us

**Author's Note:**

> hello idk how to tag this yet again 
> 
> “if there is anything true and good in it...”
> 
> all the good in this exists because of: 
> 
> my wonderful beta colleen who was supportive and generous and kind and gave wonderful, helpful, warm feedback and generally made me feel like i’m not garbage. colleen is also the reason for the strawberry fic as it is now so if you enjoyed that and enjoy this, please yell a thank you to her i think she’s my guardian angel and i’m just so grateful colleen you’re amazing
> 
> and darcy, who has been a sweet and wonderful friend who listened when i was overwhelmed by the sudden attention earlier this week and who helped me figure out what the opening of this piece could be and feeds my klance love
> 
> AND LOOK AT THIS IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL I JUST WANT TO CRY: https://iwmys.tumblr.com/post/178273553622/inspired-by-zenstrike-s-youre-lucky-thats-what i’d link like a human but ao3 HATES ME
> 
> basically i’m dead please enjoy the fluff congrats to red the hamster on her 4000+ hits and 100+ bookmarks HOW DID THIS HAPPEN I AM AMAZED AND TOUCHED

   

 

    Sometimes, Lance worried that he hadn’t been calm since Keith had kissed him that first snowy day. It was like that first kiss had woken him up to an awareness of his own body, of his own heart pounding in his chest and of his own breathing. Even when they were settled together, even when they lay down close together or held hands as they walked down the street, something seemed off-kilter in Lance.

    He tried to compensate. He failed. He panicked and stressed and sweated. Through it all, Keith was patient.

    “I have no idea what I’m doing either,” Keith told him.

    Like they would figure it out together. And maybe they would, but it seemed like Keith was leading the way and Lance was trying to keep up. Get together. Move in together. Start, maybe, planning a whole life together.

    It was enough to make Lance’s head spin. He thought he wanted that, that he wanted all the possibilities that Keith opened up for them.

    He wanted to be loving.

    He wanted to catch up.

    He wanted Keith to stop waiting for him to catch up, for him to slow down and take deep breaths and steady his own hands. He wanted Keith to look at him and know that all this was theirs to build together.

 

    (“I love him,” Lance had said in his brother’s kitchen.

    And Luis had sighed and replied: “You don’t know him.”

    And they had grimaced at each other and decided to end the conversation then and there and ignore the way Lisa laughed behind her hands.)

 

    Lance didn’t have the words. Instead, he hugged his knees and he watched Keith go to morning practice, cursing the volleyball gods. He tapped his chin and he watched Keith stare at a recipe on his phone and he watched Keith decide that they were out of their depth so he watched Keith call Hunk. And he watched Keith watch him, often leaning against the bathroom door while Lance brushed his teeth or washed his face or just stared right back.

    Cohabitation.

    He wondered if Keith knew that Lance loved him, if Lance had managed at least that.

    He tried to say it more.

    “I love you,” in the morning when they said goodbye or when he wanted to drag Keith back into bed so they could sleep the world away.

    “I love you,” when Keith made fun of the dialogue in a movie or rubbed Hunk’s back when he gagged from anxiety.

    “I love you,” when he woke up in the middle of the night and found Keith reading in the kitchen, one hand in his hair and his laptop blaring a bright, blank word document.

    Keith always smiled and always said: “I love you, too.”

    But that wasn’t entirely the point, was it?

    Lance always had to let go or turn back to the movie or to Hunk or leave Keith in the kitchen and drag himself back to bed. It was one thing, he felt, to love but it was another to be _loving_ . Keith could know that Lance loved him but did he _feel_ loved?

    Sometimes, Lance watched him sleep.

 

    (Marco had gaped at him. He had turned away and unzipped his violin’s case and then zipped it shut again. He had sat back on his heels and slapped his hands against his thighs and threw back his head and just sighed at the ceiling. Lance had found it all dramatic and unsettling.

    “No, you’re not,” he had finally said.

    “What,” Lance had said.

    “You’re not moving in with him.” Marco had gotten to his feet and stretched his arms over his head and sighed again.

    “Uh,” Lance had said. “Yes. I am.”

    “It’s probably not too late to find you a spot in residence.”

    Lance had thrown his hands up and turned away. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Have you met Nick, yet?” Marco had continued, like Lance had said nothing at all. Nothing of importance. “He seems nice.”

“Did you ignore Rachel when she told you she was moving in with him?”

“Very nice,” Marco had continued, sounding almost wistful, and Lance had imagined whacking his brother in the face with his own double-standard.)

 

    Keith didn’t snore. He didn’t sleep deeply, so the slightest jostle or noise could wake him. He fell asleep easily: sitting up, lying down, against Hunk or Lance, like somewhere along the way he had learned to seize a few minutes of sleep every chance he got. Or like he was in the middle of a constant caffeine crash. He closed his eyes and he drooped and then he was asleep. If Lance stayed perfectly still and kept his breathing steady and calm, he could watch Keith for a while.

    And sometimes, he needed to. Sometimes he needed proof that Keith could be still, that he could be peaceful, or that he wasn’t always looking at Lance like he was watching for doubt or dismay. Sometimes, he needed to watch Keith sleep so he could give a little of that back. Sometimes, he needed to see the rise and fall of Keith’s chest or hear his breathing and know that, just for now, it was his turn to cradle Keith in a little bit of love and warmth.

    Keith caught him, once.

    “What are you doing?” he mumbled and rubbed his eyes. He lifted his head to squint at their clock and groaned and pressed back against the bed.

    “Nothing,” Lance said eventually.

    Keith rolled onto his side so they faced each other and slung an arm over Lance. Lance shifted closer, just a little, and watched Keith’s eyes flutter half-closed.

    “Are you okay?”

    Lance smiled and brushed his fingers over Keith’s forehead, his nose, earning a frown. “I’m great.”

    “Weirdo,” Keith said with affection and fell back asleep and Lance held his breath, just for a bit.

    No. “I love you” wasn’t entirely the point.

 

    (“Have you told Marco yet?”

    “Unfortunately.”

    “And he isn’t marching across the country to murder your boyfriend?” Veronica had hummed. “Impressive.”

    Lance had glared. “It’s not funny.”

    “I never said it was.” Veronica had paused to clean her glasses and Lance had known that she was just buying herself time and he had thought about screaming. “Do you want to hear what I think?”

    Lance had squinted at her. “No. I don’t think so.”

    Veronica had nodded. “Consider me informed, then: my little brother is shacking up with some guy.”

    “I kind of hate you.”)

 

    “I love you” didn’t explain the way the world seemed to open up in front them when Keith held his hand, or the swelling warmth in Lance’s chest when he watched Keith walk away from him or towards him or next to him. It didn’t explain the comfortable certainty that he would see Keith, later, or that they might slam doors and yell, sometimes, but always found their way back to each other. It didn’t explain the gentle comfort of seeing photos of them stuck to their fridge or of watching Keith dribble toothpaste on his shirt or Keith’s horror anytime Lance dogeared a book.

    Lance started to wonder if this really was love.

    “Uh,” Keith said when he mentioned this. “I’m pretty sure we’re in love.”

    “Pretty sure or, like, _sure_?”

    “I love you,” Keith said simply, a little grumpily, kind of loudly. “You love me. I think that means _we_ are in love.”

    Lance snatched Keith’s discarded pizza crusts and tapped one against his plate. He watched Keith peel another slice from the box taking up way too much room on their table.

    “Will you love me tomorrow?” he asked and then tried to shove the entire crust in his mouth.

    “Yeah,” Keith replied, making it sound easy.

    Lance swallowed down the pizza crust. “Are you pretty sure or are you _sure_?”

    “I’m sure.”

    Lance blinked. “You are?”

    Keith finally looked at him, blinking slowly like he was trying to figure something out. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and then frowned, and all through it Lance waited.

    “I think,” Keith said eventually, tapping his fingers against his plate. He shook his head, tried again: “I think there’s a lot I could say to that.”

    “Such as?”

    Keith rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to say: ‘yes.’”

    “Yes.”

    “Yes, I’m sure.”

    Lance poked at one of the crusts. Keith took an enormous bite of his pizza.

 

    (“Did you tell Marco?” Rachel had asked, sounding overexcited and a little menacing. “I want to watch him lose his shit.”

    “I told him,” Lance had grumbled. “He basically ignored me! And my relationship.” Lance had paused. “Like I’m in some dramatic subplot or something.”

    “You _are_ a dramatic subplot.”

    “Thanks.”

    Rachel had linked their arms together and they had continued down the bustling sidewalk.

    “Did anyone give you crap?” Lance had muttered and traffic had almost drowned him out.

    “When I moved in with Nick?” Rachel had hummed, maybe hawed. “No. But I’d been with Nick for a while. There wasn’t that much to be worried about. Everyone knew him.”

    “Everyone’ll know Keith, too,” Lance had said. “Eventually.”

”You’re sure about him?”

    “I mean, yeah.” Lance had shrugged. “I wouldn’t be telling you if I wasn’t, you know?”

    Rachel had considered this. “I guess,” she had said slowly and dread had made Lance’s stomach ache, suddenly and loudly. “But I also think that there’s a reason you’ve been avoiding telling us.”

    “Probably ‘cause I knew you’d all try and talk me out of it. Or be passive aggressive jerks about it.”

    “Sure,” Rachel had allowed in that distant, distracted way she had that told Lance she was only half-listening. “Or because you’re not sure.”)

 

    “Do you want to ask me?”

    “Ask you what?”

    Lance pushed his plate away and folded himself more comfortably into his chair. “If I’m sure.”

    “No,” Keith replied, brow furrowed.

    “Aren’t we confident!”

    “No,” Keith said again. “I guess—I’d hope you’d tell me, tomorrow, if you woke up and didn’t love me anymore.”

    “Oh,” Lance said.

    “And I hope you’d tell me why.” Keith paused. “And I hope it’d be something I could fix.”

    “Oh,” Lance said again.

    “Yeah.” Keith put his pizza down. “I’d want to fix it.”

    Lance remembered, almost too late, to breathe. “Keith,” he started, and then stopped because Keith was looking at him again, looking at him like Lance had done something spectacular to make himself the centre of Keith’s universe.

    The usual resistance reared its ugly head, stirring up Lance’s insides and clenching its fingers around his heart—but on his next breath in, something cooler, calmer, and better spread and fought that resistance back. And maybe for the first time Lance let Keith in.

    All the way in.

    Lance soared. He was above all of it, right up in the clouds with Keith where no one could touch them.

    “Are you worried about something?” Keith asked.

Lance smiled. “No,” he replied.

 

(“You’re doing what now?”

“I’m moving in with my boyfriend.”

“What?”

“I’m _moving in_ with my _boyfriend._ ”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you tell me about this?”

“I didn’t. I hadn’t. I wasn’t—look, okay: I have a boyfriend and his name is Keith and we’re moving in together. Like, properly.”

“Properly.”

“Yeah, dad. Properly.”

And Kim—who was already, basically, Lance’s third mother—had guided Lance’s muttering father to the couch and shoved a cup of tea into his hands. “Let him process,” she had said to Lance.

“Did you tell your brothers?” his father had said from the couch.

“I did.”

“That must have been fun,” Kim had sighed and sliced some rice cake for Lance.

His father had groaned from the couch and Lance had tried to ignore him. “Luis, married! Rachel, almost married!”

“Don’t say that in front her,” Lance had muttered and had been easily ignored.

“And now you! Running off with some—man.”

It may have been the first time Lance had thought of Keith as: _man_. He had fought the urge to lay down on the floor and die. “I’m not running off with him! We’re just moving in together!”

“Did you tell your mother about the boyfriend?”

“I just told her,” Lance had huffed. “I’m telling everyone now!”

“And you’re sure?” Kim had said, a little casually, and slid a plate of sticky white cake towards him. “About this boy?”

“I wouldn’t be telling you if I wasn’t sure,” Lance had grumbled and hadn’t even had the chance to think: better _boy_ than _man_.

Kim had hummed, which made Lance think she didn’t believe him and if _that_ wasn’t frustrating—and Lance’s father had loudly carried on with his crisis until Lance and Kim had pointed out that he was already a grandparent.)

 

If it wasn’t love then what else could it be? What else would make Lance want to run his fingers through Keith’s hair? Would make him want to lie in bed all day together? Would make him want—suddenly, violently, desperately—Keith’s hands on him? Would make him dig through their closet when Keith was away and steal Keith’s clothing (his shirts, his sweaters, his socks), just to help him sleep? If it wasn’t love, why did Keith look at him like _that_? Why did Keith talk like Lance lit the damn sky, or like Lance was at the core of every plan Keith had for the future? Why was Keith so careful, so aware, and so forgiving of Lance’s insecurities and his wonder at the way their hands fit so perfectly together?

Keith woke him in the middle of the night, hands on Lance’s shoulders and lips on his neck.

“Keith?” Lance whispered, sleepy and startled and dizzy.

Keith lifted his head and kissed Lance once, twice, three times. The world spun and kept on spinning.

“Keith,” Lance tried again.

“I think about the future a lot,” Keith said and kissed him again.

“Yeah?” Lance tried to remember to breathe. “That might be anxiety.”

“Lance,” Keith grumbled and kissed him again, hard and bruising—no, searing—so that Lance thought the bed was going to swallow him whole and he needed to hold on, his hands clutching Keith’s shirt and his lips chasing after Keith’s.

   

    (Lance had told his mother first.

    “I have a boyfriend,” he had announced and his mother had smiled and Isabel had smiled so Lance had smiled, just a little, and then he had continued: “His name’s Keith.”

    “Your roommate?” his mother had said.

    “Yes. Yes! We’re dating.”

    “Now we know who you’ve been talking to all night,” Isabel had chimed in and then they had both looked down at the Scrabble board and Lance had realized they thought that that was it.

    “Uh,” he had tried.

    “I’m still deciding,” his step-mother had muttered, tapping her chin.

    “Uh!”

    They had looked up again.

    “Me and Keith are moving in together.” Pause. “Like, not in res. Properly. Moving in. Together.”

    Isabel had played “SWELL” and Lance’s mother had tried and failed to hold back tears.

    She cried easily.)

 

    Keith had this way of making Lance feel both exposed and sheltered at once and it wouldn’t be so bad except that it was overwhelming and extreme, a panicked swing between peril and safety. It made Lance hunt for that spot—like a trigger; like a giant red button—somewhere along Keith’s spine that made him cling to Lance just as tightly as Lance clung to him and made Lance believe, just for a moment, that Keith could be as overwhelmed as Lance often felt.

 

    (Lance had hoped for, but had not expected, understanding. Maybe a little encouragement. A chirped “good luck” from his sisters. A pat on the back from Luis. Reluctant acceptance from Marco, who remained unable to see Lance as anything close to Grown Up.

    Instead, Marco had ignored him every time he brought it up. Luis had lectured him on the difficulties of commitment and the value of youth, which Lance had found amusing and annoying. Veronica had kept her mouth shut, apparently determined to let Lance confront his mistakes on his own. And Rachel—they hadn’t talked, not really, since Lance had told her and he was content leaving it that way, no matter how often she had looked his way with something strange twisting over her expression.

    Lance had felt alone. He hadn’t wanted to be afraid. He had wanted someone—anyone—to say: “You seem happy.”)

 

    They held onto each other until they were both uncomfortable but even then Lance clung to Keith and Keith kept pressing kisses to his cheeks and his chin and his nose.

    Lance wanted to ask: _what the hell_ ; and _are you alright_? Instead, he sighed and he forced himself to breathe: in, and out; in, and out; in, and out.

    “Are you freaking out?” Keith whispered.

    “Shut up,” Lance replied, but his voice was shaky and he was having trouble keeping himself quiet.

    “Stop freaking out.”

    “I’m going to push you off me.”

    “Don’t.”

    “I can’t help it!” He dragged in a painful breath. “You—you freak me out sometimes.”

    “Sometimes, huh,” Keith muttered and then kissed Lance so softly Lance thought, briefly, that he was dreaming. Maybe that they were both dreaming.

    “Just say what you want to say.”

    “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

    “I can’t.”

    Keith leaned back, but it was dark and the shades were down and all Lance could see was the shape of him, the shape of the mess of his hair. He could feel Keith’s breaths and Lance wondered if Keith could feel the rapid beat of his heart.

    “I want tomorrow,” Keith said, finally. “And today. But I want tomorrow with you. And next week. And next month. And next year.”

    Lance caught his breath. “That’s what you were thinking about?”

    “I think about it a lot,” Keith said instead of just saying “yeah.”

    “I love you,” Lance said, and for once it seemed like enough.

 

    (“You know,” Isabel had said, her arms folded and her legs crossed and a small smile dancing on her lips. “I thought you’d take a year off. I thought you’d come with me and your mom and spend your days knee-deep in the ocean trying to find yourself.”

    Lance had stared at her and she had shaken her head and pried his mug of tea from his hands.

    “Instead,” Isabel had continued, and then she had paused and Lance had thought that there was something both soft and strange about his step-mother that evening. “Well. Instead, you went across the country and you started university and you made your mother worry that you wouldn’t survive your first prairie winter.” Isabel had laughed and sipped at Lance’s tea.

    Lance had leaned back in his chair and pulled his knees up to his chest and wiggled his toes. “Okay,” he had said eventually.

    “You’re brave,” Isabel had continued. “And I was reminded, when you left and when we left you, that I trust you.”

    “Okay,” Lance had said again, frowning. “I mean—okay.”

    And Isabel had kept on smiling at him and then she said: “You’re brave and you’re proud and you’re capable of anything.”

    Lance had flushed and hugged his knees tighter. “Thanks,” he had muttered.

    Isabel had reached for one of his hands and held on tight and she had said: “I trust you to do what’s best for you.”

    He had stared at their hands. “Are you going to try and talk me out of it?”

    “No. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could.” She had released his hand. “I’m in your corner.”

    Lance had scoffed. “Plenty of room for you,” he had muttered.

    Isabel had hummed. “It’s hard for them to imagine letting you go,” she had admitted. “But they’re all behind you, too, Lance. They just don’t know your boyfriend’s there, too.” Another pause. Another smile. “Yet.”)

 

    Hunk called.

    “I checked my mailbox today,” he said.

    Lance frowned. Keith put an apple in his hand.

    “Yeah?”

    Lance put the apple on the counter. Keith huffed.

    “Have you checked your mail recently?”

    “It’s Sunday.”

    Keith took the apple back and returned to the table.

    “Okay,” Hunk said. “Yeah. I know. But have you checked your mail recently?”

    “You’re trying to tell me to check the mail.”

    “I’m trying to tell you to check the mail.”

    Lance turned to Keith and lowered the phone. “Hunk wants me to check the mail.”

    “Did he send you something?” Keith tapped his highlighter against the table. “Did he send _us_ something?”

    Lance rolled his eyes and pecked the top of Keith’s head. “I’ll be right back.”

    “Don’t freak out,” Hunk said as Lance dug out their mail key.

    “You guys make me sound so—dramatic.”

    “You are dramatic.” Hunk paused. “And we love you for it.” Another pause. “You freaked out on Keith again?”

    “No,” Lance grumbled. “Almost.”

    “Domestic bliss,” Hunk cooed.

    “Give me a hint, Hunk. Is there a spider in my mailbox? A graphic PSA?”

    “Dramatic.”

    “A big book? A bible reading guide? A Peterson pamphlet?”

    “I can’t tell you! Just. Don’t freak out.”

    “You’re so weird.” Lance skipped the last few stairs and pushed out of the stairwell and into their building’s mostly-empty and mostly-battered lobby. He trailed the edge of the key along the mailboxes, counting down to his and Keith’s apartment number.

    “I think you would have told me, if you knew,” Hunk babbled in his ear. “So. I guess. You don’t know? And I don’t want you to freak out. It’s really a good thing, I think. I mean. Probably.”

    “You freaking out isn’t helping me not freak out.”

    “I’m not freaking out. I’m just kind of—freaked out.”

    Inside their mailbox Lance found: a missed delivery notice for Keith (probably a book; maybe even a textbook); a menu for a new Chinese restaurant; a flyer for the campus printer; and a little square envelope, made from thick and strangely soft paper. Lance’s hand froze over it.

    “Hunk,” he started.

    “Just open it!”

    “I’m going to put the phone down.”

    “Okay.”

    Lance set his phone face down on the delivery notice and pulled the envelope out. It felt expensive, or maybe just fancy but Lance couldn’t always tell the difference. He toyed with the edges and turned it over, reading his own name and address rendered in black ink and swirly letters.

    He tore it open.

    He thought he could hear Hunk muttering away.

    The card inside was a lovely pastel yellow, bordered with tiny white flowers and birds. Printed in the same swirly letters as on the outside: _Nikolas Benjamin Hansen and Maria Rachel_ —

    Lance shoved the card back inside. He picked up his phone.

    “Hunk,” he said.

    “Lance,” Hunk replied.

    “Did you get an invitation to my sister’s wedding?”

    “I did.” Hunk cleared his throat. Lance closed the mailbox carefully, leaving everything but the invitation where it was. “You didn’t know, huh?”

    “I met Nick,” Lance muttered. He started back to the stairwell. “I didn’t know his name was spelled like that.”

    “Did you know Rachel was going to marry him?”

    “No.”

    “Do you think your parents know?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Are you going to bring Keith?”

    Lance froze between floors two and three. He blinked.

    “Lance?”

    He shook his head. “Obviously. I just—“ He chewed his lip.

    Hunk was quiet for a moment, and then: “Do you want him to meet your family?”

    Something familiar and steady and warm stirred in Lance’s belly. He smiled and jogged the rest of the way to the third floor door. “Yeah.”

    “Everyone’ll be there.” Hunk made a considering noise. “I’ll be there, too, I guess.”

    “What do you mean you guess? You’re not skipping Rachel’s wedding.”

    “You’re right, you’re so right. I’m sorry.”

    Lance’s smile grew. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said and hung up without waiting for Hunk’s reply.

    The warm thing grew as he puttered down the hall, his untied shoelaces dragging and his smile growing until he thought his face was going to split open. He could feel a daydream (many daydreams) starting, poking at the back of his mind: Nadia pulling Keith’s hair; Keith shaking Lance’s father’s hand; Keith playing scrabble with his mother and Isabel; Lance holding Keith’s hand while watching Rachel get married.

    He burst into their apartment with, perhaps, too much energy because Keith poked his head into the hall, looking confused and concerned. His hair was all over the place again, like he’d been reading something tough or been worrying about what Lance would find in the mailbox.

    Keith blinked. “What’s going on?”

    Lance, clutching the envelope, managed to ask around his grin: “Do you want to meet my family?”

    Keith blinked again, and then smiled.

 

   

**Author's Note:**

> i know i keep making promises in the end notes but coming up is the klance anniversary and the lance-meets-adam story. and, of course, keith meeting lance’s family. 
> 
> title comes from anna calvi’s “don’t beat the girl out of my boy” and i have things i could say but maybe one day i’ll just share the playlists i listen to for this series and hope you all understand WHY I’M LIKE THIS
> 
> i’m on tumblr as zenstrike so come talk to me but also i’m awkward and do this a lot: lkdfjaldjflakds


End file.
